Ratiocinate
by Shylee Taregan
Summary: Professor Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore reflects on the power he is forced to wield, the decisions he is required to make, and the burdens he must carry. Complete. Oneshot.


**Ratiocinate**

**By Shylee **

**ra·ti·oc·i·nate, **_**–verb.**_ _to reason methodically and logically._

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When one reflects on the choices one has made, does one have the right to doubt them?

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A stand-alone Dumbledore-centric fic on the dear Headmaster's thoughts. Set during Half-Blood Prince.

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Albus Dumbledore's serene blue eyes were cast on thoughts and places far beyond the room at present as he sat for afternoon tea with Minerva McGonagall. She seemed quite capable of sitting there and enduring his long-drawn silences, and, for certain, she was among the few who allowed the grand sorcerer to do so. The grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry buzzed with laughter and life, as its students enjoyed one of the last days of summer that they would see before the acerbity of the winter season coursed through the mountainous Northern England landscape.

After another long moment of mutual silence, Dumbledore was brought to rights again with the quiet tinkling of McGonagall's teacup as she set it down.

"Ah, Minerva," the great headmaster sighed. "The days come and go with the seasons."

"Indeed," the deputy-headmistress said with a firm nod. "Far too quickly, one would say."

"One would," he agreed amicably. "Or one may say that they dawdle a trifle."

McGonagall allowed a small smile before her face lapsed into its usual prim countenance. "Now, Albus, I promised myself that I wouldn't bring it up again, however under the circumstances-"

"Then one must not break one's promises to oneself!" Dumbledore chuckled, eyes twinkling.

The animagus looked exasperated at her headmaster. "Really, Albus, do humor me for a moment."

"Humor you I may," the headmaster said with a nod. "I know this old joke about a witch, a zombie, and a broom…"

He stopped at McGonagall's look and, with a small smile, gestured for her to continue.

"Headmaster, what of your hand?" she said pointedly, giving no pretense. "Certainly it is not something that Poppy could help with…"

Dumbledore shook his head, eyes still twinkling behind his spectacles. "Really, Minerva, you do worry too much. Severus has made sure to clean it up in a trice, and it should be healed in no time at all."

"Of course," McGonagall replied, her expression souring noticeably. "Severus."

Dumbledore watched her reaction with a slight smile. "You don't think him able?"

"Oh, far from that, Albus. More along the lines of _trustworthy_." She backtracked at the look in Dumbledore's eyes. "It's simply that…" She sighed in exasperation. "Oh, really…"

"Minerva, I have time and again assured you that my trust in Severus is not ill-placed. My life is quite literally in his hands sometimes, it seems." Minerva sensed that he was closing the case as quickly as she had opened it.

"I suppose," she said grudgingly, but with the air of one who would not let such a discussion lie. She rose to her feet as Dumbledore spelled the tea set away with a quick wave of his wand. She studied the headmaster as he accompanied her to his study door. The years had not been entirely kind to him, she saw. She read them in the wrinkles on his forehead and the wariness in his eyes. For certain he was still an emblem, a figure of clout and authority, but to the few who knew him well, his many years had wizened him.

"Thank you for the tea, Albus," she said as she left. "Do rest a bit?"

"Of course, Minerva, of course."

And he was alone again.

Albus Dumbledore closed his eyes for a moment, his well-tuned senses probing the room for nothing in particular, his thoughts in a jumble that raced circles in his head. He was not a young man anymore, though he allowed himself the pride of being just as able to race a particularly vivacious young man and win. It was mostly his thoughts that aged him, made him sigh long-suffering sighs.

He knew he was a very powerful wizard, and he knew it without a shred of narcissism. He alone had faced Grindelwald, he alone was the one man alive whom Voldemort feared. But he was weary, so very weary, of the tribulations, of the power, of the thoughts he was forced to carry upon his shoulders. With his wisdom and decisions, he weighed the fate of the worlds, and so many lives depended on his good judgment. He alone was forced to bear the guilt that came from the wrong decisions, the consequences that followed them after. He alone was the face of assurance, and so rarely did he find someone whose assurances he could lean upon.

That was not to say that he was an untrusting man. To those he trusted, he trusted with all his life. He was quite happy to lay his life in their hands. But he knew in his heart of hearts that those he trusted would not be able to face an uncertain Dumbledore. Time had taught Dumbledore that in times of crisis, people needed a certain, authoritative, sagacious figure to hold them up and keep the chaos at bay. He knew that people feared authority falling apart at the seams, feared having nothing to protect them and ensure justice be served.

In his lowest of moments, he had despised the trust that was put in him. Unquestioning trust it was not, merely a trust put into one who more often than not had proved himself more than worthy, more than capable, of shouldering the quandaries and the subsequent consequences should something go wrong. Doubtful or not, however, Dumbledore feared his own wisdom. He had been proven right on many counts that he had never wanted to be proven right on. He had been proven wrong on far less, though the outcomes of those had proven ruinous on all levels.

He feared much, Dumbledore. He feared being wrong as much as being right, he feared making an inexcusable mistake, he feared being unable to remedy, to help, to allay.

But he forced himself to be strong. He knew that many looked to him, that a war had been dropped on his doorstep at the most inconvenient of times, that he had stepped onto a battlefield and was now forced to play it out. He knew that he would be required to make decisions with all the emotional range of a paperclip, knew that he would have to be ruthless more often than soft, knew that he would have to sacrifice even those he most cared about if he were to ensure the peace of the greater good.

At times, he found it dauntingly pointless. Grindelwald fell; Voldemort rose. If Voldemort should fall – and for certain he would, he made too many mistakes already, and his lack of fear of the right things ensured many more to be made – then another would eventually rise to take his place, perhaps not for another two years, or another five, or another one hundred. The cycle of fear, of pain, of heartache, of brutality and sacrifice would start again, just as history deemed it would, just as it always had.

But he would force himself back to the present, make himself handle that which faces him every day. He would face it all wearily, cautiously, resentfully, and bravely. But he would face it all the same, because he had to, because he was among the very small number of people who could.

The weight of his thoughts, of his actions and reactions, of his decisions and what they cost, would have buckled a lesser man. But whether or not he was lesser, he knew was not the case. He simply _was_, not because it was required, but because he had no choice. He had to live with himself, had to ensure others' peace of mind, had to ensure as much justice could be had in the world so that the greatest power of all, _love_, would flourish one day as it had once before. But he lived. He bore the burden, the honor, the inevitability, the commitment he had made.

For he stood alone against armies that he was quite sure few others would ever have to face.

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R+R, if you please.


End file.
